


blood and water

by mysterymistakes



Series: my darling wants me dead [1]
Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Alternate Universe, Head Of House!Claude, Hostage Situations, Informant!Sylvain, M/M, Mafia Dynamics, Non-Graphic Violence, Turning Coat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-01
Updated: 2021-03-01
Packaged: 2021-03-13 02:14:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,011
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29769147
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mysterymistakes/pseuds/mysterymistakes
Summary: “Oh, look who’s awake! Good morning, sunshine,” trills a high, reedy voice, “how was your nap?”Sylvain spits a glob of bloody phlegm on the floor with a cough. “I’ve never slept better.”
Relationships: Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd/Sylvain Jose Gautier, Sylvain Jose Gautier/Claude von Riegan
Series: my darling wants me dead [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2187918
Comments: 2
Kudos: 34





	blood and water

**Author's Note:**

  * For [cosumosu](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cosumosu/gifts).



> this is based on [cosu's](https://twitter.com/guessibetter) fantastic amazing wonderful brilliant claudevain smug au art!

Sylvain’s getting tired of waking up with blood in his mouth. He’s an informant, a spy, a professional whore; getting roughed up is Felix’s job, not his. Maybe it says something that this is the first thing he thinks of when he wakes up hogtied and bloodied on a cold, unfamiliar floor. He wriggles a little bit. His hands are bound at the small of his back by a thick cable that bites a little too hard into his wrists. His ankles are tied too, but nothing else is. Slowly, effortfully, he pulls himself upright. The headrush is immediate and pounding. It takes more blinks than it should to pull the world into focus from the whitish haze he’d woken up in. He’s probably concussed. _Great,_ he thinks.

“Oh, look who’s awake! Good morning, sunshine,” trills a high, reedy voice, “how was your nap?”

Sylvain spits a glob of bloody phlegm on the floor with a cough. “I’ve never slept better,” he drawls, but his voice sounds far away, and his vision is running on a delay, like his brain is the center of a gyroscope and everything is swimming around it. He’s definitely more fucked up than he thought he was. “You know, you should really train your people to tie your captives right. A man could lose a hand over here.” That same shrill voice bites out a giggle that turns Sylvain’s blood to ice.

“I like him, Claude. He’s got personality!”

Sylvain blinks at the floor. _Claude… Claude… Oh. Oh, no._

Everything comes rushing back. He’s really gone and done it this time, hasn’t he?

A low chuckle rumbles its way across the floor and makes each one of Sylvain’s hairs stand on end. “It’s refreshing, I admit. So unlike all of those other Lions who’ve gotten lost in our forest. I guess they’re not all as blockheaded as that sniper from last time.”

“Oh, yes! I remember him. He was so much fun to break. I wonder how he was received back at his den,” another biting laugh, “I hear the weak ones have a worse time back at home than they do here. Do you think this one is here to finish the job?”

Sylvain sneers at the floor. He really shouldn’t let them get under his skin like this, but it’s Felix, they’re talking about. Felix’s one and only failed mission that destroyed him from the inside out and landed Sylvain in his place. The image of Felix, drugged, trussed up like a cut of bargain meat and left to be found, is still fresh in his mind, as is the hollow way he’s roamed the Lion’s halls since, haunted them like a ghost. Sylvain’s teeth taste like copper when he bites to hold his tongue.

It started after Dimitri came back.

Dimitri had reappeared out of the blue and with a mysterious new face at his side, a slim man with hair that looked radioactive and who knew too much. Dimitri himself had looked far worse for the wear, like he’d spent five years tied behind a truck and dragged down an asphalt road; battered, bruised, and entirely broken. The shattered pieces of the Dimitri whom Sylvain had once sworn loyalty to were held together by a malignant, cancerous growth that had clearly rotted him away at his core to leave nothing but a shell for that damned puppeteer of his to pose as he so pleased. They’d all known, of course, Felix, Ingrid, and himself, but he’d been the only one to speak up, for questioning the word of their leader is as good as announcing yourself a traitor; the line of neatly bleached skulls on display in the hallway going towards Dimitri’s private rooms is a heavy reminder of that. He is the leader, and they are all to follow, as was their oath, as is branded in ink at the base of Sylvain’s spine.

The thought of Dimitri pains him. Nobody knows what happened during those five years where he disappeared, least of all Sylvain. Dimitri has been nothing but professionally cordial to him in the year since his return, no matter what Sylvain tries, but what he hates most about it are the pitiful, sidelong glances he gets from everyone else. It had been no secret that they were more than just boss-and-informant. They’d grown up together, discovered each other together, carved out places in their lives and their bodies meant for no-one else. Sylvain had been _happy_ to submit, to serve, to have a place where he fit so perfectly, even if it came at the price of whoring himself out to bigwigs and white-collar criminals that smelled about as good as the spoiled starch those collars were stiff with. Besides, he’d grown to love the sick satisfaction of pulling secrets with his body, extracting them like precious jewels to offer back at the feet of his king. He’d been _glad to,_ all for Dimitri. Everything, anything for Dimitri. Something sour settles in the back of Sylvain’s throat. All that is gone, but it doesn’t matter. Once you’re in the game, your only out is underneath six feet of unmarked dirt.

His vision has returned. He looks up as Claude is dismissing the woman next to him, who stalks by him with purpose, her red-bottom heels trailing dainty red footprints as she goes, thick pink ponytail swishing rhythmically behind her.

For all his time as the top informant of the Lions, this is the first time Sylvain has been so close to Claude.

He _knows_ who Claude is on paper, the head of the Deer, with a background as tricky to pin down as the man himself, notorious for his skills in misdirection and the webs of misinformation he weaves, made effective by the nuggets of useless truth contained in every lie. Sylvain has been briefed on him enough times that he could probably recite Claude’s persons document while drugged out of his mind.

He did not calculate, though, for the fact that Claude is _beautiful._ He is strikingly handsome in an almost ethereal way, like a model in the most alluring cologne advertisement who walked straight off the page, still trailing bits of prop snow and ice behind him. He oozes the kind of quiet authority that Sylvain has always envied and is nowhere to be found among the ranks of the Lions, but the muscle that ripples beneath his expensive shirt as he rises to approach Sylvain speaks to the physical strength necessary to be the leader of a House. His hair is perfectly tousled. His patent-leather shoes do not have a single scratch on them. His eyes are a piercing green that would pin anyone else like a butterfly in a display case. The door bangs shut as the woman leaves, and it’s just the two of them.

“Well, I would be remiss if I didn’t acknowledge your success, little Lion. You really almost had me there for a moment,” Claude chuckles, coming to rest just in front of Sylvain. “You have come the closest to unravelling something important than anyone else in a very long time. I’m impressed.”

Sylvain scoffs from where he’s kneeling on the floor. “What, you mean to tell me that Felix didn’t satisfy?” There’s no use hiding names. Sylvain knows they both know everything here. “I hate to break it to you, but an informant is better at figuring things like this out than a sniper.” He spits blood on the floor again. “I’ll take the compliment, though,” he purrs. A sly smile tugs at the corners of Claude’s lips, and then there’s a hand wrenched into Sylvain’s hair, yanking him up. His scalp burns with the force of it.

“Hilda was right,” Claude hums, “you are a pretty thing, even under all those bruises.” He turns Sylvain’s head this way and that, appraising him, coolly taking stock of the damage done. Sylvain shivers. “She really did a number on you, huh?” His brings his other hand just in front of Sylvain’s face; it’s adorned with a set of clawed rings made of deftly woven gold that glimmer seductively in the low light. The sharp, pointed thumb runs across Sylvain’s bottom lip, one of the smooth joints catching and pulling on a bloody split.

Sylvain sticks his tongue out and presses it to the cold jewelry. The tangy metal tastes of skin and sweat. Something flashes behind Claude’s eyes, but he doesn’t break composure as he swiftly takes hold of Sylvain’s jaw, pinning his tongue to the bottom of his mouth with that golden claw, the others pinching meanly into his cheeks. Sylvain grins around it. _Two can play at that._

It’s always been a game to Sylvain. He delights in the human puzzle, what parts of which person he can pick and pull at until they fall apart in his hands for him to examine. His carefully cultivated image of carefree whorishness is just the nectar to the flytrap, something that (of course, of _course,_ because such is his lottery in life) was first suggested to him by Dimitri. He had been the one to pinpoint Sylvain’s uncanny knack for dissolving people’s defenses so they slide off like wet paper, the way he had been able to turn Felix’s belligerent loyalty from a thorn in their side to their secret weapon, the perfect thing to upkeep their veneer of brute strength and ignorance.

He knows that if he is sent back, he will be killed, plain and simple. Dimitri made that clear. He had stared through Sylvain with that single, vacant, icy-blue eye, and announced to everyone that if he came back empty-handed, then it had better be because he’s been delivered in a body bag. There was no trace of the man he once loved.

He may as well roll the dice one last time.

Sylvain’s knees ache and his scalp stings with white-hot pain, but he closes his lips around Claude’s thumb anyway. Claude leans forward to whisper low in his ear.

“Do you want to know what I think?” he asks, breath ghosting over Sylvain’s exposed neck, a smile evident in his voice. Sylvain nods, keeping the thumb snugly in the warmth of his mouth. “I think she was jealous. She’ll never admit it, but she’s got a bad habit of beating too hard on pretty boys like you.” Claude pulls away with a low, rumbling laugh. His ring splits Sylvain’s lip further as he slides it from his mouth and a single drop of crimson drips from the sharp tip. Sylvain does his very best not to collapse back down in relief.

“I’m flattered you find me so interesting, Claude,” Sylvain says. His tongue feels like silt in his mouth. “You have quite the reputation for sending dull things immediately away.” Claude barks out a single, loud laugh.

“Well, maybe if you keep me entertained, I’ll send you back home in one piece, little lion.” He sits back on his chair, an overly large, ornate, gilded thing that his presence still expands to fill up entirely. He crosses an ankle over a knee, like they’re business associates discussing the latest marketing strategies, not like Sylvain is entirely at his mercy.

“Oh, I’m sure they would just _love_ that,” Sylvain says. He makes no effort to keep the bitterness from his voice. “More exciting for them to feast on when they eat me alive. Dimitri won’t spare me the way he did Felix. He used the last of his good graces on him. Probably for the best.” He smiles. He doesn’t know why. “After all, an exposed informant is about as profitable as a used-up, loose whore.”

“Such a pity on Dimitri’s part,” Claude drawls, still fixing him with that freezing stare. “Unwise of him to throw away something so useful, but if those are his rules, then those are his rules.”

“What,” Sylvain laughs mirthlessly, “and you could find a use for me? As what? Another cocksleeve?” He shakes his head. “Maybe I could rework those cobwebs you call misinformation systems, if you wanted to put me to work.”

Claude uncrosses his legs and leans forward with his elbows on his knees. Sylvain can’t read him, and it’s terrifying. “Do you know how many other people have been able to get as close to the information you wanted as you did?” Sylvain doesn’t answer. “None. Not one of them have been able to even get past the preliminary measures. For you to have gotten as far as you did is nothing short of astonishing. The only reason you failed is because the lead you were chasing was a dud, but it wasn’t one of ours. Anyone with a brain can see that you’re an extremely valuable asset, Gautier. It just doesn’t hurt that you’re easy on the eyes. Your precious leader wanted you gone.”

Sylvain stares at him.

_It was a dud. The tip hadn’t even been real in the first place._

_Dimitri sent me to die._

Somewhere, in the back of his mind, Sylvain knew this. He’s not stupid. That _parasite_ had put words in Dimitri’s mouth, filled him up with pretty lies about who knew what, and pinned it on Sylvain, the only one with the gall to notice the translucent strings playing Dimitri like a discordant, broken instrument. _Of course_ the Deer would have nothing to do with the Eagles. Sylvain knows Dimitri suffered at the hands of the Eagles during his absence. He’s seen the scars, the way he’d been flayed like a dissected frog and stitched back together, probably pumped full of any number of vile concoctions and tinctures at their hands. Sylvain would bet his life (and he did, he did bet his life, and he lost it all) that this _new growth_ that’s attached itself to Dimitri is a plant from those Eagles. All the pieces finally fall together, and it must be evident on his face, because Claude’s wearing a sympathetic smile that makes his blood boil.

Sylvain grits his teeth. The Dimitri he knew is dead and gone.

“Do you want to know what I think?” Claude says again.

“Your words are wasted on a dead man.”

“I think that the Lions are running a suicide mission,” Claude states. “I won’t pretend to know what happened to Dimitri, much less the rest of your leadership, but something has changed. All he’s doing is running himself and his people dry trying to get dirt on the Eagles, but something’s keeping him from just storming the castle. We all know that he could just waltz in there and kill everyone involved if he wanted to. That’s what makes the Lions powerful. They deal in fear to keep their people in line.”

Claude is speaking to him the way that Dimitri used to, Sylvain realizes. He’s speaking to him as an equal, as someone whose opinion is to be valued, taken into consideration and given the time of day. He hasn’t been spoken to like this in _months._

“That kind of fearmongering is poisonous,” Sylvain says. “People are too power-hungry. It turns them into nothing more than schoolyard bullies before it puts them in the dirt. We, _they,_ ” Sylvain corrects himself. He’s not one of them, not anymore. He was disowned the moment he woke up at Claude’s feet. It’s refreshing, he decides, to be free of loyalties like this. “ _They_ all know it. It’s the first thing we’re taught, but clearly, it sticks about as well as you’d think, especially with the new recruits. And Dimitri,” Sylvain sneers. Claude folds his hands together, leveling that same calculated stare at Sylvain again, which he has come to realize is _consideration._ He’s being listed to. He’s important. Sylvain doesn’t care if it lasts, because right now, it’s addictive. “Dimitri is as good as dead. His body came back, but he didn’t.”

“That’s certainly something harsh to say about the leader of your House,” Claude says, making his way over to Sylvain again. He flexes his wrist, and a long, thin blade slips down into it from somewhere inside the loose sleeve of his shirt. He grabs Sylvain by the hair again and forces his head back—the knife dances between his fingers before he presses it against Sylvain’s throat. The razor-sharp tip of it lodges in the thin skin. “And who’s to say that I won’t just send you back? You’d be much less trouble out of my sight.” Sylvain doesn’t laugh, but he does lick his lips and smile.

“I never thought for a second you’d spare me, _Claude,_ ” he says, because it’s true. “We’re both supposed to abide by the rules of the game, and that means you send me from the belly of one beast back to another, even if you’ve taken a shine to me. Besides. Who’s to say I won’t fuck my way to freedom, even if you do let me go? Dimitri doesn’t know the value of my life. Why should he get to take it?”

Claude laughs, but the knife does not move from Sylvain’s throat. “But didn’t you just say that we’re both bound by the rules?” He muses.

“I’m flattered, Claude. I thought you would’ve figured out by now that I’ve never been one for the _rules,_ just the way I know you aren’t. I guess you really don’t know everything then, do you?”

Something like excitement flashes behind Claude’s eyes. “You’re a fun one, aren’t you? I’d love to keep you for myself.”

Sylvain smiles. It’s not supposed to be an invitation. They both know that if Sylvain changes sides, changes hands, then the Lions won’t stop until they can get him back, but Sylvain wants in. He wants in on Claude’s quiet power, wants in on the complex spiderweb of networks that took all his brainpower to unravel, wants in on somewhere he can see calling _home_ in a way he hasn’t been able to in so, so long, and after all, life without a little spice?

“Then, keep me.”

**Author's Note:**

> thank you SO MUCH to cosu for the commission and thank you for reading!


End file.
